


flawless

by bibliosexual



Series: Tumblr fic [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Christmas Party, Derek is a Failwolf, Eggnog, Established Relationship, Insecurity, Jealousy, M/M, Nerd Derek Hale, Stiles is a Lydia Martin fanboy, but this is not a Stydia fic, epic birthday cakes, pop star Lydia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4501536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliosexual/pseuds/bibliosexual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know you and I are, like, werewolf-married, but dude, if I ever met Lydia Martin in person . . . All bets are off, is all I'm saying."</p><p>It's not like Stiles really means it (does he?), but it still makes Derek’s hands clench into claws on the steering wheel.</p><p>"Yeah, if," he says, and keeps his eyes on the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flawless

Derek’s relationship with Stiles is about 40% eyebrow conversations, 40% innuendo, 5% puns (on Stiles’ end), and 15% fighting over the radio in the Camaro.

Except when Lydia Martin comes on. Then it’s 0% fighting over the radio, and 0% complaining, and 0% passive-aggressive commentary, or else Stiles will dump his ass, no exceptions.

“Not even when it’s your birthday in a week and your boyfriend is about to spend hours upon hours of his life baking you an unnecessarily complicated Millennium Falcon cake?” Derek asks.

“Not even,” Stiles agrees cheerfully. He cranks the volume a little higher as he says it, just to be a little shit, and adds, with entirely too much fondness given that this is a woman who regularly threatens to crush men’s skulls under her stilettos, “She’s my strawberry-blonde goddess, you know this.”

“Yeah,” Derek mutters, “I know.”

“And you can quit it with the judgey eyebrows, because I know you listen to Celine Dion in the shower.”

Derek shuts up.

It takes a whole four minutes for the song to end. It’s one of her quieter songs, one that doesn’t get a lot of air time. It’s not that bad, he supposes. A little twangier than he likes, a little more saccharine, but—pleasant. Like a lullaby. What makes it annoying is Stiles sitting over there crooning at the stereo and making heart eyes. No song—or singer—is  _that_ good.

Stiles sighs contentedly into the last notes and wriggles his butt against the seat. “I know you and I are, like, werewolf-married, but dude, if I ever met Lydia Martin in person … All bets are off, is all I’m saying.“

It’s not like Stiles really means it (does he?), but it still makes Derek’s hands clench into claws on the steering wheel.

"Yeah, if,” he says, and keeps his eyes on the road.

*

Derek found the fan blog about a month ago, at the start of March.

He’d been in bed, reading an Agatha Christie paperback and waiting for Stiles to finish up whatever work he was doing on his laptop. The waiting in itself was pretty routine. Stiles’ idea of ‘just fifteen more minutes, I swear!’ usually turned out to be more like an hour, these days. But by now it had been two, and that was a little much, even for him.

When he finally wandered into the living room, he found Stiles asleep on the couch with his laptop still up and open to his tumblr. Derek knew Stiles had one, but he’d never thought much of it. He wasn’t much of a tech person, and he trusted Stiles, knew Stiles didn’t keep secrets from him. If Stiles didn’t want to show him the blog, that was Stiles’ business. Having a little space was healthy in a relationship, or so Boyd had told him. Derek would be prying if he looked at it.

He didn’t mean to. Honestly. He meant to reach over Stiles’ shoulder and ease the laptop shut. Maybe tuck a pillow under Stiles’ head. Get him comfortable and go back to bed.

But then his eye caught on the URL—lydiamylovemyqueen—and he froze.

He’d clicked through fifteen pages before he came back to himself enough to stop.

He hates how surprised he was, how naive. The lock screen on Stiles’ phone may be him kissing Derek on their summer vacation to London, but his home screen? Lydia Martin on the cover of Vogue. Derek’s known this for ages.

Still.

It’s been weeks, and the words still echo like a song stuck in his head.  _My love, my queen_. Stiles has never called Derek his love.

Not that Derek wants Stiles to make a Derek fan blog. That would be creepy. It’s just. Well.

He checks the blog sometimes, like picking at a scab. Waits until Stiles is out of the apartment, then locks himself in the bathroom and furtively pulls up the page on his phone.

He knows it’s not healthy, but he can’t make himself stop.

*

If he’s being honest, he knows what Stiles wants for his birthday, besides the Star Wars cake.

There’s a new Lydia Martin EP out, one Stiles doesn’t have yet called FLAWLESS. Derek knows this because he goes to the hipster record store downtown and asks. The guy behind the counter has three painful-looking silver rings through each eyebrow. He gives Derek the most condescending of all condescending looks, but he doesn’t say anything, just points Derek to the appropriate section at the back of the store.

Derek spends a good twenty minutes there. It only takes him a minute to find the right album, but he needs a lot longer than that to weigh the CD in his hands. He’s glad there aren’t many other people in the store—no one to judge him for holding a staring contest with a picture on a CD case. The title’s no exaggeration. She really is flawless.

When he walks out empty-handed, he tells himself it’s because someone else has probably already bought it for Stiles. Everybody knows about Stiles’ Lydia Martin thing. Everybody. Hell, the only reason Stiles hasn’t bought the EP for himself is probably that he knows he’ll get it for his birthday.

So Derek wanders across the street to the mall instead. An hour later he comes out with a gift-wrapped maroon sweater, warm and cloud-soft. Everybody loves sweaters, and besides, it’s cold in the apartment sometimes, even in April.  

*

When Stiles sees the Millennium Falcon cake, he flings an arm around Derek’s shoulders and whoops, “Aw yeah baby, you are so getting it tonight!” There’s a chorus of “Ew!”s and “TMI”s from around the table, but Derek can’t even muster any embarrassment; he worked too damn long on that cake.

His smug smile dims somewhat when it comes time to open presents.

When Stiles pulls out the sweater, he leans over and kisses Derek’s cheek and says, “Aw, thanks, boo.”

“Lame,” Isaac mouths across the table.

Derek sinks down in his seat, feeling more like Stiles’ grandma than his boyfriend.

“Open mine next, bro!” Scott calls, and lobs it at Stiles’ head.

It’s the EP. Of course it is. Stiles makes a show of kissing the CD case while Erica loudly complains about Scott being a dirty rotten enabler. She’s one to talk—she got him a wristwatch with Lydia’s face on it, probably as a joke, but Stiles has already sworn he’s never taking it off.

Derek huffs. “Shut up, you’re not even the one who has to live with him after this.”

“Ha ha,” Stiles says, “living with me is a fount of never-ending joy, don’t even front.”

“Sure,” Derek says, rolling his eyes instead of saying the first thing that comes to mind, which is entirely too sappy for the occasion. Or for any occasion. “I’ll be sure to remember that next time I find your dirty socks between the couch cushions.”

“Oh, come on, that was one time, and you’re just as gross—”

“So, hey,” Scott interrupts, “the CD’s not even the best part. Check out what’s under it.”

What’s under it are two VIP tickets to Lydia Martin’s next live show in Sacramento. Once Stiles gets over his wide-eyed shock, he practically  _vaults_ over the table to tackle-hug Scott to the floor.

“Mature,” Erica says, and pops her gum. She’s filming the whole thing on her phone. “How old are you turning again, Stiles? Five?”

“You’re just jealous you don’t get to meet Lydia Martin in two weeks!” Stiles retorts from the floor.

“You found out my secret,” she says, and glances over Isaac’s head at Derek like, ‘What an idiot, am I right?’

Derek smiles weakly back and picks at a stray ribbon on the table. She might not see it, but he does. He knows. This is it. The beginning of the end.

*

Maybe Derek could just make the tickets … disappear. Bury them under the pile of magazines Stiles always claims he’s going to read and never does. Or hire a housekeeper to “accidentally” flush them down the toilet before Stiles got home from work. He’d make it up to Stiles later. Blow him for an hour on the couch, take him to a Dodgers game, whatever it took.

Except then he thinks how excited Stiles is about this. How devastated he’d be. And he can’t bring himself to do it.

Objectively, he knows: It’s just a concert. It’s not like Stiles got tickets to marry her. Still, though. Still.

*

A countdown app appears in the top right corner of Stiles’ blog.

Derek checks it under the table at breakfast; in the bathroom at work; in his car while he’s idling at the world’s longest red light; in bed at 3 a.m. while he listens to Stiles snoring beside him.

13 days, 8 hours.

12 days, 1 hour.

11 days, 3 hours.

Even when he’s not watching the numbers tick down, he feels like there’s a clock going in the back of his mind. He gets home early and surprises Stiles in the shower, and Stiles runs his shampoo-y hands through Derek’s hair to tug him into a kiss hello, and Derek thinks,  _10 days_.

He catches himself staring blankly out the window at work, thinking about the birthday sweater again. He wonders if he—if he bores Stiles. If Stiles ever looks at Derek and feels a twinge of disappointment.

The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how long he’s been bracing himself for something like this. Probably ever since the night they met, at Allison’s Christmas party a little over a year ago.

Derek hadn’t known Allison then, or any of the pack besides Erica, who’d dragged him along as her platonic date. Needlessly, as it turned out, because she swiftly abandoned him in favor of dragging Boyd under the mistletoe. This had left Derek sitting awkwardly alone by the fire, sweating in his reindeer sweater and nursing a drink that tasted more like rum than ‘nog but that he wasn’t sure how to throw away without being rude.

And then Stiles had come over, slumping against the wall beside him and shooting him a commiserating look like they were old friends and not complete strangers. “Please distract me from the fact that Kira is over there making out with my best friend right now. I can’t look.”

“A blue whale’s heart is as big as a small car,” Derek had blurted, and then cringed. This was why he hadn’t had a date since college.

But Stiles just beamed like Derek was the best thing he’d ever seen and said, “Aw man, I love whales.” And just like that, they were talking, and it was easy, and Derek was actually  _enjoying_ himself. At a  _party_.

“No way,” Stiles had scoffed when Derek admitted he was a financial analyst. “You’re way too pretty for that. I was expecting you to be, like, a shark-wrangler. Or a professional mountain climber. Or a sexy librarian.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Derek had said.

Stiles had given Derek a long, meandering look that made the room feel ten times hotter and said, “Oh, trust me, you’re not.”

A few minutes later he’d leaned in and murmured in Derek’s ear, “Wanna hear a secret?”

“Mm,” Derek had hummed, trying not to pop his claws just from the feeling of Stiles’ breath on the vulnerable skin of his neck.

Stiles had giggled, “Normally I’d be waaaay too chickenshit to do this, but Scott totally spiked the eggnog.”

“Do what?” Derek had asked, turning his head to look at him, and Stiles had kissed him. Climbed into his lap and sucked Derek’s bottom lip into the heat of his mouth and fondled the newly-pointy tips of Derek’s ears.

“Ha, knew you were a 'wolf. You were totally sniffing me earlier.”

“Was not,” Derek lied, and Stiles just rolled his eyes and let Derek bury his nose behind Stiles’ ear.

Stiles left with Scott and Kira an hour later, after a whispered goodbye to Derek that turned into another five minutes of making out, everything in him going calm and quiet and blissfully warm with the rightness of it.

Derek had drifted back into the party in a state somewhere between disbelief and euphoria. He couldn’t stop brushing his fingers in awe over his lips, slightly swollen from so much kissing. He thought of Stiles and Scott and Kira driving home in the dark, on roads still a bit icy from last week’s storm, and pulled out his phone to tell Stiles to text him when he got home safe.

It hit Derek then, two equally devastating facts: he was in love with Stiles, and Stiles hadn’t bothered to give him his number.

*

He hadn’t expected to see Stiles again. It wasn’t like they usually ran in any of the same circles. And if they did meet again, he was determined to stay aloof. He’d learned the hard way in college that he wasn’t cut out for casual.

His first day back at work after New Year’s, Erica had interrupted his pensive staring at Stiles’ Facebook profile to say there was going to be a pack movie night at Boyd’s place Friday—and Derek was welcome to come, she added in a tone that clearly implied ‘Be there or else.’

He went.

He went, and he held hands with Stiles on the couch, even if he thought it was probably the stupidest thing he’d ever done, and at the end of the night, he left with Stiles’ number.

They weren’t exactly …  _dating_ , after that. But Stiles texted him all the time, everything from whale puns to rants about  _Game of Thrones_  to snippets of song lyrics with Derek’s name slipped in. He started inviting Derek to pack hang-outs, and sometimes he held Derek’s hand, and sometimes they made out for hours afterwards and Derek felt like he might float away with happiness.

Stiles started to invite himself over to Derek’s loft sometimes, and sometimes he slept over, and sometimes he stayed the next morning for breakfast. He made himself a copy of Derek’s key, and Derek didn’t say anything. Sometimes Stiles didn’t go back to his own place for weeks at a time. He started calling Derek ‘oh boyfriend mine’ in texts, jokingly at first and then, well, … not.

And eventually, when Stiles’ lease ran out, coincidentally around the same time Laura moved to NYC and left Derek her apartment … well. It just seemed like the easiest thing would be for them to move in together. So they did.

But there’s never been the kind of moment Derek dreams about, no surprise marriage proposals or passionate love confessions in the rain. No love confessions anywhere, in fact.

Which isn’t to say Derek hasn’t tried, because he has, okay, more than once.

The first time had been an absolute failure, made even worse by the fact that he planned it meticulously. Derek wore the most flattering and least comfortable shirt he owned. Stiles had frowned at it and plucked self-consciously at his red hoodie. “Dude, I thought we were just going to the aquarium?”

“No, we are, you look wonderful,” Derek said, but Stiles still squinted suspiciously at him before getting in the car. It wasn’t an auspicious start.

As they meandered their way through the exhibits, Derek was way too busy hyperventilating to take in any of the things they were seeing, and he avoided holding Stiles’ hand because then Stiles would feel how sweaty it was. By the time they got to the beluga whale tank, he felt like he was going to explode from holding in the words, and when Stiles pressed a concerned hand to Derek’s forehead and said, “Man, you aren’t looking so hot, you feeling okay?” Derek had just gone for it: “Stiles, I love—”

A little girl behind them chose that moment to shriek, “ _Mooooom, Jason stole my toy!_ ”

Stiles wrinkled his forehead at Derek. “What?”

It was the most terrifying confession of Derek’s life, and Stiles hadn’t even heard him.

Derek hadn’t had the courage to repeat himself.

The second time was a few weeks later, at the hospital. Stiles definitely heard that time, his eyes going wide in what Derek pessimistically identified as panic. But before he could say anything, Scott had burst into the waiting room yelling, “It’s a girl, it’s a girl!” and the conversation had been lost in the mad rush to see Kira and the baby.

That was three months ago, and Stiles still hasn’t brought it up. And, well, Derek can take a hint.

*

On the last evening before the concert, Stiles arrives home in his usual whirlwind—door kicked shut, jacket and messenger bag and sneakers and keys all tossed off wherever the mood strikes him, mail slapped down on the breakfast bar. As soon as Derek hears the key in the door he grabs one of Stiles’ tech magazines off the coffee table, opens it to a random article. It’s about something called RFID emulators and he doesn’t understand any of it, but he pretends to read anyway, sinking down further into the couch and listening to Stiles bumbling around in the kitchen, humming something.

It’s always hard to tell what, exactly, Stiles is humming at any given moment; he’s probably the most tone-deaf person Derek’s ever met. (His humming renditions of “If I Die Young” and “All the Single Ladies” are practically indistinguishable.) Derek secretly loves it anyway.

The humming comes closer and stops right behind him. He tenses. That’s the thing about dating the same person for so long: by now Stiles can see through his horrible acting in a heartbeat.

“Hey,” Derek says, flipping to the next page in the magazine.

Slowly Stiles comes around the couch, says, “What are you over here philosophizing about?” He’s got his shirt sleeves rolled up, and a soft, fond smile is starting at the corners of his mouth. He takes the magazine away and tosses it somewhere, settles himself comfortably on Derek’s lap, fiddles with the hem of Derek’s shirt. Which is actually Stiles’ shirt, dug out of the hamper.

The truth is that Derek’s spent the last three hours on his phone, combing through the archives of Stiles’ fan blog and wondering how Lydia Martin is even real. Not only is she a pop star, she also has a B.S. in Theoretical Physics and Applied Mathematics and frequently guest-stars alongside Bill Nye on children’s television. She tweets about video games and feminism and spy movies; she takes no shit from anyone; and she has this dry wit in interviews that would sync perfectly with Stiles’ own brand of sarcastic humor. According to Stiles’ blog, they even have the same favorite color (red) and crave the same kinds of food (an In-N-Out cheeseburger and a shake). She’s basically perfect for him.

And if there’s one thing Derek’s sure of, it’s that Stiles deserves the best, not just some guy he met at a Christmas party and settled for after they kept running into each other at Erica’s get-togethers.

There’s no good way to say any of that, though, so Derek just nuzzles his nose under Stiles’ jaw instead.

“Pro tip,” Stiles says into Derek’s hair, “if you wanna pretend you haven’t been sitting over here staring at a blank wall and brooding” — he slips Derek’s glasses off his face, deposits them carefully on the end table — “then go for the TV, not _Wired_ magazine.”

“Okay,” Derek says quietly.

Stiles thumbs Derek’s cheek, says, “When was the last time you shaved?”

Derek mumbles indistinctly, which makes Stiles snort. “That’s what I thought. But you know, I kinda like it. Mountain man’s a good look for you.” He sighs dramatically. “Everything’s a good look for you, it’s unfair.”

Derek smiles a little into the skin of Stiles’ throat, lets Stiles pull the blanket from the back of the couch over them both. For a few minutes they just settle into the warmth and quiet—a rare state indeed, where Stiles is concerned—and then Stiles reaches out a hand from under the blanket, digs the remote out from between the couch cushions. He flips channels until he lands on a rerun of  _Hitch_. Derek makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat so Stiles won’t flip past it; he’s long since past pretending to hate rom-coms.

“Big sap,” Stiles mutters, and scritches his hand lazily through Derek’s hair.

The movie’s almost over already; Hitch is pacing in Sara’s hallway, pouring his heart out to the closed door. “What if fine isn’t good enough?” he says when she comes out, “what if I want extraordinary?”

“No such thing,” Sara says, and walks away.

A few minutes later she’s smiling again, playful, saying, “Wow … you kinda like me, huh?” and Hitch is smiling back, looking at her the way Derek probably looks at Stiles. “Nah,” he says, “I love you. I love you, and I knew it from the first m—” and she doesn’t even let him finish before she’s kissing the hell out of him.

Derek tightens his fingers around Stiles’ hips—Stiles is snoring gently against his chest now—and sniffles, just a little.

This is what Derek likes the most about rom-coms, that it’s a world where nothing hurts for long.

*

He wakes up alone on the couch in the morning, yawns contentedly and freezes mid-stretch when he realizes what today is.

_If I ever met Lydia Martin in person … All bets are off, is all I’m saying._

Once, on a full moon when Derek was fifteen, he’d made the mistake of wolfing out in his backyard, and his near-blind old neighbor Mr. Barnes had shot him in the stomach with his son’s hunting rifle. By the time Dr. Deaton got to the house, Derek’s skin had already healed over the buckshot. Deaton had to cut it out of him, piece by piece, as his sisters held him down in the grass. Derek hadn’t known anything could feel like that, hurt like that.

Derek’s pretty sure this hurts worse.

He finds Stiles bumbling around the kitchen in boxers and a two-sizes-too-large FLAWLESS tee. He’s not doing anything really, just humming what Derek tentatively identifies as Lydia Martin’s “Banshee Ballad” and sipping his coffee while he waits for his Pop-Tarts to finish in the toaster, and it still makes Derek  _ache_.

Stiles spots him lurking in the doorway and gives him a jaunty wink. “So, today’s the day. You ready for Sacramento?”

Derek can’t take it anymore. He looks resolutely at the cabinet over Stiles’ right shoulder and forces the words out. “I know it’s a long shot, but if she meets you and things … click, or whatever, well, I’d—I’d understand.”

Stiles blinks dumbly at him, coffee frozen halfway to his mouth.

“I mean,” Derek clarifies, “I wouldn’t want to get in the way. Of that. For you.”

“You. In the way,” Stiles says slowly. “Of me and … Lydia.”

“Yes,” Derek nods, relieved Stiles gets it so he doesn’t have to say it again.

Stiles puts his mug down on the counter, twists his hands in the hem of his shirt. “So this is, what, you telling me don’t want to be with me anymore? You’re breaking up with me?”

His eyes are huge and sad, and Derek’s not sure where he lost control of this conversation. “What? No! Of course not.”

“But you just said you’d rather I go date someone else! How else am I s’posed to take that?”

“As me giving you what you want!”

“Oh.  _Oh_. And what I want is to cheat on my boyfriend, is that it? That’s what you think?” Stiles paces, tugging at his hair. “How could you say that? How can you think that? We  _live together_ , Derek. We—”

“We never celebrated our anniversary,” Derek blurts, and then winces. He doesn’t even know where that came from, god. It’s not like he expected Stiles to—

“What? Yeah, we did! I totally made you breakfast in bed!”

“No you didn’t.”

“Well, okay, I  _tried_ to make you breakfast in bed—”

Derek frowns, remembering. “That was  _you_? That set off the fire alarm at 3 a.m.?”

“Uh, yeah!” Stiles waves his arms like  _duh_. “And then I totally did that thing to you, you know, with my mouth for like an hour to make up for it! That was better than burnt pancakes anyway, right?”

“I guess,” Derek says. It  _had_ been pretty good.

“But—not the point.” Stiles whirls on him. “I know. How about we talk about that thing you just said where you think I’d want anyone else, because I thought that was a really stupid—”

“It’s what  _you_ said!” Derek yells. “I didn’t make it up, it’s what you said.”

Stiles stops, blinks. “What, when?”

“In the car! That time in the car, you said anything could happen with you and Lydia, ‘all bets were off’—”

Stiles groans like he’s in pain. “Oh my god, we have got to talk about you learning to take a joke. Because that’s what that was. A  _joke_. Dude, I wouldn’t—”

“You wouldn’t?” Something hopeful starts to uncurl itself in his chest. “But she’s— and I’m—”

Stiles groans again and comes over to thunk his head on Derek’s shoulder. “Can this conversation be done already? Look, dude,  _you_ are the giant adorable grouchy math nerd I happen to be  _really fucking fond of_  and also  _dating_ ,” he pokes Derek’s chest for emphasis, “and  _she_ is just, I dunno, an awesome stranger who’s never going to be anything more than an awesome stranger to me.”

“But you have a fan blog.” He knows he’s pushing it here, but he has to say it. “You reblog pictures of her face, like, every day. You called her your  _love_ and you never even told me you love m— I mean, you never said it back when I—”

Stiles raises his head, looking exasperated and endeared. “Oh my god, of course I love you.” He wrinkles his nose. “Have I seriously never said that? I think it, like, all the time. I love you. I love you. I love you—”

Derek shivers with a kind of tingly euphoria.

“And I loved you the moment I saw you at that dumb party, I loved you before I ever even talked to you and then I did talk to you and it was  _amazing—_ ”

He’s lying, Derek realizes suddenly, he has to be, because— “You didn’t ask for my number.”

“When?”

“At the party! You just left. Like, like you didn’t care if you were ever gonna see me again.” He hates how small his voice has gotten suddenly.

Stiles sighs, rubs his thumb behind Derek’s ear in an absentminded kind of way. “Okay ignoring the fact that you totally could’ve asked for my number instead ... I think we’ve established I do some stupid shit when I’m drunk. Like forgetting to ask the hottest, awesomest guy on earth for his phone number. Or like that time with Jackson and Danny at karaoke night, everyone can agree that wasn’t my finest hour, either. Or Allison’s Halloween party. Drunk Han Solo is not nearly as badass as sober Han Solo. The only badass thing about that whole night was how awesome you looked in a Wookiee costume.”

It’s true, Stiles is a total lightweight, and even when he’s sober, his mind’s a thousand places at once.

“When I realized I didn’t get your number,” Stiles goes on, “I tracked Erica down and I forced her to invite you to that pack night.” Derek startles. He had no  _idea_. “And even if you hadn’t gone, I probably would’ve stalked you with my gigantic weirdo crush on you. But I didn’t have to, did I, because you showed up and you gave me your number and you dated me and you said you  _loved_ me—”

Stiles pushes off him, starts pacing again. “And I don’t know how else to say it, Derek. I love you. I love your weird whale facts and your sweaters, I love how excited you get when you’re really into something, I love your eyebrows, I love you being shy, I love how you always sit facing the door when we go in restaurants ’cause you wanna protect me and shit, and—and I don’t want to ever not love you, and I don’t want to kiss Lydia, or go on dates with Lydia, or marry Lydia, I wanna marry  _you—_ ”

He freezes, almost comically alarmed. “Fuck. That’s not how I wanted to ask you that question.”

Derek feels rooted to the floor. “You want to marry me?”

“Always,” Stiles breathes. “I totally have a ring too. I hid it in that—”

But he doesn’t get any further, because Derek is rushing forward and kissing the breath right out of him, backing him up against the sink and shoving his hands under Stiles’ shirt.

“Ah, Der—Derek,” Stiles gasps, legs tightening around Derek’s waist, when Derek bites down, hard, on the join of his neck and his shoulder, licks over the spot and then  _sucks_. “Just—are you saying yes right now? Is that a thing that’s happening?”

“Yes, you idiot,” Derek says. Like he would ever say anything else. 

*

Stiles’ blog is nothing but pictures of Derek (“my smokin’ hot nerd fiancé”) for  _weeks_. Not that Derek checks. Too often, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr [right here](http://bibliosexualll.tumblr.com/) for those interested.
> 
> This was my first time writing established relationship Sterek, so that was fun.


End file.
